


Be Your Army

by AugustApollo



Category: Years & Years (Band)
Genre: Angst, Brotp, Friendship, Hints of Emolly, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6514909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustApollo/pseuds/AugustApollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't matter what people say. Emre will always defend Olly.</p><p>This 3-part series features scenarios wherein Emre (and Mikey as well) stands up for Olly and the band's ideals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homo Hetero

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this in between a longer fic. 
> 
> In interviews, Olly is always the one who answers, but it is clear that Emre and Mikey are also well informed.I wrote this chapter with the hopes to explore how Emre handles LGBT issues on his own.

Emre is straight – that’s a fact. At least he thinks it is. He doesn’t really care. Their band has, unintentionally, become the poster child for LGBTQ+ in the music industry despite the fact that 2/3 of Years & Years are heterosexual, so Emre has learned to embrace all the relevant ideologies and be updated with the issues. There have been, however, a few times when he threw facts about his sexuality to the wind for the greater good. (Or just Olly. Just for Olly.)

The first time, Olly wasn’t even there. They were taking a break from touring, and Emre used the time to catch up with old friends. He was with Matt, a childhood friend of over 15 years. They grew up together, went to school together. They were welcome in each other’s homes, and knew each other's rooms like the back of their hands. They were on first name basis with their parents, spent holidays together, and saw each other through new relationships and breakups. Matt is a constant in Emre's life. Yet, he felt no remorse with how the evening played out. 

The two men were having dinner at their favorite local pub, a quaint hole-in-the-wall with comfortable booths, large food portions, great beer, and an endless showing of football. It has been their go-to joint since university. It was well into dinner, and both have downed at least 2 bottles of alcohol, when Shine started streaming on the television during a commercial break. Emre couldn’t stop the proud smile that erupted his face almost instantly, but stopped short when he saw Matt roll his eyes. 

“Woah, what was that?” He laughed as he took a sip of his third beer. Matt gave an uncomfortable yet lighthearted chuckle as he reached for the fries. 

“Nothing, nothing.” His words are muffled by his food. 

“Didn’t look like nothing. Why'd you roll your eyes?” Emre asked casually, finding his reaction confusing and amusing. In hindsight, warning bells should have gone off when Matt heaved a heavy sigh. 

“It's just that…” he clicked his tongue like he's shaking the words from the top of his mouth. “he's so gay!”

Matt laughs and rubs the back of his neck.  
“Well, he IS gay. You know that. No big deal.” Emre doesn’t understand why he would say such a thing.

“Yeah, but he is VERY VERY gay!”  
“There are degrees of gayness?” Emre forces out another chuckle, but it comes out sounding nervous and on edge. Matt sets his bottle down. He puts his elbows on the table, and puts his fingertips together in thought. He doesn’t look at Emre, which he takes as a horrible sign. It's quiet for a while as the man puts his thoughts together. 

“Listen, man. I like Olly. He's nice and he's funny and he makes you famous.” So far, not a good start. The impending ‘but’ is all too obvious.  
“But…” There it is. Matt struggles with his words, opening and closing his mouth multiple times without saying anything.

“Look, you guys practically live together. You tour together, travel together, stuck hip to hip on a daily basis. You sleep and bathe in the same hotel rooms, change in front of each other, right?” Emre nods as he counts off all these facts about them. 

“And he's a boy who likes boys.” Matt says this slowly, as if it is meant to explain everything. Emre just shakes his head, unable to put A and B together. 

“Man, aren’t you even a little worried? He looks nice, but he could be checking you out while you change, or peek in the shower, or watch you sleep! He's surrounded by lads all the time; he could be using you for his personal sexual….fulfilment or whatever.” Matt ends lamely, and admittedly not very eloquent, but Emre doesn’t say anything. His veins have turned to ice. His blood rushed to his ears, and he can hear his heart pounding. His knuckles are white from the tight fist he didn’t know he was making. He sees red everywhere. Matt waves in front of his face, and he instinctively swats the hand away.

“What the fuck, man?” Emre says, unable to form a better sentence. His breath comes quick and short, but it’s the best his raging heart can manage without breaking his ribs. 

“You do know Olly, right? You've been to our rehearsals, our gigs, our band dinners, from the very start. Do you honestly think that he can do that?!” Matt is about to say something, but Emre is just getting started. 

“And so the fuck what if he likes boys? Do you think girls in bands with guys objectify and use them? That is seriously some fucked up thinking, man. He could stare at me naked and I would still trust Olly with my life.” Again, Matt tries to say something, but Emre won’t have it.

“And how fucking dare you. I mean, have you forgotten what kind of band I’m in? We're on gay magazines. We have a fucking gay award. And we shame backward thinkers like you.” Emre didn’t mean to get so carried away, but it's too late now. He sucks in a heavy breath to fill his empty lungs. Matt takes this as his opening. 

“Listen, man. I’m just trying to look out for you. I’m sure he's a nice bloke, but he has needs. He's single and you’re there; it's a possibility.” Emre looks at his friend of many years, and feels like he's looking at a stranger. He could punch him in the face.

Instead of saying more, Emre chooses to leave. Matt is saying more things (whether they’re apologies or insults, he doesn’t care at this point), but he's too busy digging for a crumpled bill to pay for his meal. He slams the money on the table, and pushes off quickly. 

“Emre, come on. Let’s talk. I'm just looking out for you!” But Emre doesn’t look back.  
The same thing is that he believes he's right, Emre thinks. Matt knows in his heart that he is doing the right thing and protecting his best friend. Sure, he doesn’t have a problem with Olly being gay. He just has an issue with Olly being gay while Emre is straight and they basically cohabitate. 

The evening air is biting cold when he steps out of the pub. It hits him hard, and does not help his already short fuming breathing. Little puffs of white escape his mouth, and he thinks he may be making an awful sound when he exhales, but he is too fucking furious to care at this point. Fuck Matt. Fuck his perceptions. Fuck this fucking. Fuck his straightness. Fuck his gayness. Fuck Olly.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Olly. Olly. Olly.  
Without even meaning to, without missing a step, the next thing Emre realizes is the ringing in his ear. 

“Hello?” It's Olly, his voice breaking. It's nearly 2am, so he must have been asleep. Emre isn’t sorry.

“Mattisagoddamnedidioticannotfuckingbelievehimhehassomenerve!”

A beat of silence. Some shuffling on Olly's end.  
“What? You’re not making any sense.” Olly stifles a yawn at the last word, and it comes out muffled, like he was pushing it down with his palm. (Emre is almost sorry.) He tries again.

“Matt is an idiot. He thinks that you may be exploiting me and Mikey because you’re gay.” There's acid in Emre's mouth and throat. He wants to throw up.

“Define exploiting.”

“Like, checking us out and watching us sleep or whatever bullshit illusion he has.” Emre runs a hand through his hair. He turns a curb. He's suddenly aware that he's been yelling. He's walking and heaving and yelling like a goddamn madman at 2am.

“Alright, alright. Calm down, Emre. It's not a bid deal! We know it's not true.” Olly sounds tired but amused. He can picture him with his curls spread out on the pillow and a hand pressed over his eyes. 

“Yeah, but he knows you! He knows you and he still had the nerve!” Emre punches the air and kicks the pavement. He pretends to strangle Matt. Now, there is no doubt that people are staring. He knows he looks insane. 

“Then we just prove him wrong! Been there, done that, right?” Olly is the world's most optimistic person, especially at this hour. It may be the alcohol, it may be his temper, but Emre is warm through and through. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, yeah?”  
“Fine, fine. Whatever.” Emre is still yelling.

“And Emre?”

“WHAT?”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I LOVE YOU TOO.” Pause. “I’LL SEE YOU SATURDAY.”

With that, both hang up. In his bed, Olly rolls over and falls asleep with a gigantic silly grin, thanking whatever heavenly power for Emre. Walking the streets of London, Emre heads home with a head full of curses and Olly.


	2. Intoxication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Oh what, are you his boyfriend?"  
>  "What's it to you?"_
> 
> Things could have been a drunken mess if they hadn't found him in time.

The music is much too loud for Olly's liking which is why he's leaving, at least he thinks that's why. It's hard to figure out a deciding factor when the floor was moving and everybody else was moving and he was also moving. He's not a big partier, none of them are, but the band keeps getting invited to fancy celebrity parties and they are far too star-struck and geeky to decline. He manages to find a solid surface to lean on as he presses a sweaty hand to his sweaty face, pushing the alcohol down. The strobe lights are dizzying kaleidoscopes that punch the backs of his eyes, and the heavy dance music vibrates deep into his ear drums until he is unsure if it is music or fists. He didn't have a lot to drink, just a few (dozen?) shots, but the lights and music are really getting to him.

This might be motion sickness, he thinks, the disconnect of what you see to what you hear.  Olly continues stumbling through the crowd, not entirely certain how he's dragging his lead legs under him. He sees a spot of puffy hair to his left and is almost certain it's Emre, but he doesn't trust his stomach enough to turn and check. He has no luck finding Mikey on his way out, but he figures he'll get around to texting them about his whereabouts in the cab. Olly is at a whole new level of disgusting, even for him. His white baggy shirt is soaked through, his silver hair is pastey on his head, and heaven knows what the hell his glitter stripe looks like on his damp face. 

Olly soldiers on, willing himself to get to the exit, but it taunts him by remaining so far away. The alcohol sticks to the back of his throat (or is that bile? He isn't entirely sure).  In his nauseous state, he doubles over, putting his hands and head on the closest solid object, which so happened to be someone's chest. 

"Oy, hands off!" It's a man's voice, deep and husky and very pissed off. Olly is too busy keeling over to care. "what the fuck is your problem? Can't hold your alcohol, lightweight?" There might be an undercurrent of humor, or it might just be the moving floor again. Olly lifts his torso to give an apology, but the movement is far too fast that it sends acid up his throat. He grabs the man's shirt again. 

"Get off, mate!" He pushes Olly's hands off him, and Olly drops them to his bended knees. His head hangs low, willing himself to just. Not. Vomit. 

"Look at this faggot trying to get one on me." He hears the stranger say. There's laughter behind him. Hell fucking no. Olly whips his head up again with the intention of puking in the asshole's face, but the back of his head is gently caught by warm hands. 

"I got you, I got you." There's a warm voice in his ear, and mild scent in his nose, and a calm hand on his chest. His eyes may be closed, but Olly can pick Emre out anywhere. There's an arm around his waist and a hand roughly pushing his hair back from his forehead. Knowing he's quite literally in good hands, he allows himself to completely distrust his weak knees. Olly's hands grab Emre's shirt for dear life and head lolls forward, jabbing itself at Emre's forehead. Damn the height difference, but at least the alcohol numbs the pain. The hand in his hair flies to his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake before returning to the back of his head, fingers gingerly grasping the side of his skull to lift his gaze.

"Careful, mate. That fag's wasted." There's that gruffy stranger again, laughing like he's so fucking funny. The warm body against Olly's becomes concrete, and suddenly, Emre's comforting arm around him becomes a vice. Emre's head snaps up so fast, brushing against Olly's cheek like a bullet grazing skin. 

"What did you say?" A beat. 

"Oh, what, are you his boyfriend?" Gruffy scoffs, obviously humored by whole thing. 

"What's it to you?" Comes Emre's reply. Well, that's not right. Right? Olly raises a fist with all his woozy might, but it lands weakly against Emre's shoulder. He forgot what he is supposed to do with it. No one would believe Emre's gay; he's such a...boy. A boyish boy with his good boy glasses and his boring sweaters and his ever dark jeans and his lopsided grin and his floppy hair and his kind brown eyes. Boyish Emre is boyish. He tries to say this, but his tongue doesn't cooperate. It chooses some bubbly blubbery mess. 

Olly doesn't hear what Gruffy replied, if he replied anything at all, but he guesses Emre doesn't like his reaction because the arm around his waist and the forehead against his are gone. Emre is in front of him now, placing his body between Olly and Gruffy. Olly feels his hand go cold, but can't decide if it's fear or Emre's grip on him that's cutting off his circulation.

"What's it to you?" Emre says again, much stronger this time. Olly manages to pull at Emre's hand in an attempt to make him stop. Not tonight, not any night. Emre doesn't do fights. Emre's a good boy who makes bad jokes and never gets in trouble. 

Well, that's not entirely true. He gets in trouble sometimes. He made his mother cry and his father angry when he told them he's going to stop being an architect to focus being in a band. He gave up a steady white-collar job to give Olly and Mikey their dreams. Olly reaches up to pick at Emre's shirt collar, letting his train of thought lead the way.

Another body presses behind him, pulling Olly out of his reverie. 

"Do we have a problem, mate?" This time, Olly makes the effort to properly look up even though he already has a solid idea who it is. 

Maybe it's just the intoxicated haze, but Mikey seems so much taller. He towers over everyone, even Gruffy. He stands tall with his hands in his jacket pocket, but he looks at the stranger straight in the face. His voice is calm and steady, but steel. He's a gentle soul that likes good food and silk, but Gruffy doesn't know that because Mikey is also a tower of a man with long hair and lots of scary facial hair. Olly never felt so strong and yet so small as he did now, caught between his two men. They found him.

He can't be entirely sure, but Gruffy looks confused. 

"What, you three boyfriends?" He gives a laugh, but he laughs alone this time. Neither Mikey nor Emre moves. It lasts a second, or perhaps an eternity, but Gruffy finds himself sidestepping slowly while nursing a beer. The tension fizzles out into awkwardness. Another century passes before Emre turns to him and wraps his arm around Olly's waist again. It feels nice, and he finds a small comfort in knowing he can safely pass out if he wanted to. 

"You alright?" Emre gives a nervous laugh before catching Olly's chin to force him to look at him.  But when he does, Emre is looking above him, probably at Mikey. A conversation happens in silence, and Olly only knows a decision is made when Mikey takes his other arm and his legs start moving forward without permission. 

Olly vaguely remembers the pavement and the biting night air. There's a cab ride, but he's too busy hiding under Emre's jaw because the car seems too fast and the street lights make his head spin faster. Mikey sits in front, allowing Olly to ball himself at the back. His ear is pressed against Emre's warm neck, and the vibrations let him know a conversation was being had. He doesnt remember much, but when Mikey mentions the girl Emre was talking to (whom Emre was apparently interested in), Olly's arm may have found its way around Emre's waist. The conversation continues without his participation, but the last thing he remembers before passing out was a warm hand rubbing circles on his back. 

There's a lobby and a cold carpet and a lot of "please get up"s. There's a door and an icy bed and "good night, mate".

He wakes up completely to register that he is back in their hotel room, comfortable under warm sheets. He and Emre were sharing this time, so Mikey was probably at his room with Dylan. Everything looked soft and faded and a little fuzzy, like those old cheesy videos that parents took of their kids. But in this old cheesy video, Emre was padding over to him with a glass of water and a shirt. 

"C'mon, just sit up a little. C'mon now." He's talking in that small voice he uses when he talks to Zey, or when he tries to get Olly to do something when he's upset. The world is shifting around him, and his dead arms are anchoring him to the sheets. He pulls his head and his spine up, but Emre seems to be doing much of the work. There are cold hands on his waist and his chest and his shoulder, but it takes a shirt over his head to realize that his top is off. 

"You smell like death." Emre mumbles. He would have missed his words if they weren't so close. Olly opens his mouth to say something, but Emre holds up a finger before handing him a glass of water. He helps Olly bring it up to his lips, covering his hands under his, and wipes his face when he's downed the whole thing. Like a goddamned child.

"Now you were saying."

What was he going to say? Oh yeah, this is nice. His boys are nice. Lads, men really. They're nice men. Gentlemen. Better word. He feels so loved. He's utter crap, but they love him. They love him. They love him. He loves him. 

"Say that a little louder, I think you might wake the dead."

Oops, did he say that out loud?

"Yep, and that too." He looks at Emre who looks back expectantly, amusement shining through his glasses.

"Why you do love me? I'm crap." Olly taps the bridge of his glasses as he pops his "p". Emre rolls his eyes as he unfolds the fresh shirt on his lap. He shoves the shirt over Olly's head.

"What's that quote from the Emma Watson movie? 'We accept the love we think we deserve'". Emre is mumbling again, so he isn't sure if it's an answer. When he doesn't say anything else, he assumes it is. Olly lifts one arm and stabs it through the sleeve. 

"Well, I don't deserve it so I won't accept it." Another arm, another sleeve. Why did he even say that? If Emre says he's right, he will definitely cry. Something about the alcohol makes him think this is a conversation to be had. Or a negotiation he can win. Emre disagrees. 

"Well, you already have it, so deal with it and go to sleep." He is pushed back down to the bed by a warm hand on the shoulder, and is blinded by a cold duvet in the face. He doesn't move right away, not until he hears the shower running in the bathroom.

He wakes up again at god knows what hour. The drapes are drawn and the room is icy cold, but it's toasty under the duvet. Emre is on the other side of the bed (when they bargained for an upgrade, they were hoping for a suite, not a couple's room with a king-sized). His breathing is so deep and steady that it almost rocks him back to sleep, but the sandy walls of his throat demanded rehydrating. 

Olly is relieved to find a glass of water on the nightstand next to him, along with some painkillers. On the side of the glass was a taped note that he could barely make out in the dark.

"You're an awful drunk. You owe me."

He smirks at the piece of paper before carefully downing the glass. Then he slips under the covers again, maybe inching closer to Emre this time. He gives him some of his warmth because let's face it. In the light of everything that's happened, it is the least that Olly can give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikey had an active participation this time. He may be a gentle soul, but I think he's the type to rise to the occasion as needed. I hope I did him justice with this on .


	3. Rooftops And Roaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awful day at the studio for two different reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. It's a bit different than the others. I hope you like it!

Emre always did things right the first time around. He got good grades, went to a reputable school, graduated with a respectable degree. He always makes his mother proud and he somehow still impresses his father. So why can't he make this damn chorus work? He leans over the ledge, staring at the pavement. It looks miles away, and the people walking on the sidewalk look like little action figures scuttling along. He's high up enough that the sounds of the city blended into one chaotic monstrosity, punctuated by a stray honk here and there. 

Smoke escapes his lips, and he lets the gray puff disappear into the equally dismal dimming skyline. The cigarette butts are scattered around him, some under his sneakers, others tossed a few feet away. He's lost track of how many he's smoked, and he can't remember the last time he was this angry. He finishes the stub between his lips, and stomps on it, deliberating whether he should be having another one or heading down. The decision was made for him when the door to the rooftop opened.

Olly peeks his head through the door, the top of his hair falling sideways as he tilts his head comically, his eyes meek and uncertain, before his attempts a playful nonchalant skip to Emre. He has a white container in one hand, which he sets on the ledge right next to Emre, and takes a good step back to give him his space. Emre just stares at the container, which must contain food if the plastic fork on top was anything to go by. Olly didn't seem to know what to do with his hands; he was rocking on his heels and pulling his already loose shirt into a tent, eyes never leaving Emre. God, Emre wants him to stop. Always a goddamn worrier. 

"It's lasagna." Olly offers after a minute or a week of silence. "Mikey cooked it for our lunch, but you never came down. We were starting to worry if you had died up here." He laughs, but it's cracked with nervousness because Emre still hasn't said anything. He's just looking at the damn box, and it's making Olly itch. He continues to rock on his heels. Emre looks away and reaches into his pocket for another cigarette, which makes Olly snap. He jumps forward, opens the box of lasagna, and shoves the fork into Emre's hand. For a second, he looks angrily at Olly, but shakes his head like the puppy that he is, and digs into the pasta. For a while, the only sound was Emre's chomping. Really, it was chomping.

"I don't understand why you're so mad." Olly loses his patience and brings it up himself because it was obviously not going to be Emre. "We've argued over songs before, we've disagreed so many times on so many things. Far worse things, if you'd remember. So why are you pissy about a chorus?" Olly crosses his arms, glaring at Emre, who had stopped midchomp. He wipes the corner of his mouth, and turns his body to face Olly, his eyes cold and furious.

"It has never been like this! You'd never not liked at least one. This time, you hate all of them." Olly opens his mouth to argue that no, he doesn't hate them all, but Emre cut him off with a hand slicing through the air. "I worked very hard for a long time to give you all these options, and you turn them all down. Don't you get how demeaning and frustrating that is? You turn them all down with no better suggestion of your own. You simply say you don't like any of them, and expect me to make more. Do you think I pull these tunes out of my ass?" Emre shoves his hands into his pocket and turns away. Dammit, he really wants another cigarette, but no. He's also very hungry, so he decides to dive back into the lasagna.

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." Olly mumbles, and Emre feels degraded all over again. He scoffs at Olly, and transfixes his glare on him again.

"I'm not just mad because you hurt my feelings, Olls. I'm not a child. You guys pick on me every day. My self-esteem can handle a few rejections. No, it's that you don't seem to appreciate or understand what the hell it is I go through to give you what you want, and none of it is enough."

"It's not that it isn't enough; none of them were right!" Olly threw his hands up in exasperation.

"If you already have an idea of what it should sound like, then tell me! You're being completely unhelpful. You're wasting my time." Emre grips the fork in his hand extra tight, he's afraid he might break it.

"I don't know how to explain it. I don't know how to do what you do." Olly stomps, looking deflated and a little pathetic, kicking the used cigarette butts around.

"Then find a way to. You're supposed to be the one who's good with words. You can't just tell me that you want something happy and boppy; that could mean an endless possibility of sounds. Just like how you don't say pink; you say coral and carnation and fuscia and magenta or whatever. " Emre stabs the lasagna and shoves the cold meal into  his mouth, chomping angrily. He only turns when Olly giggles quietly. He looks over to find him looking happily at the ground, prodding the stubs with his shoe.

"What's so funny?" Emre asks through a mouthful of tomato sauce and ground meat. Olly looks up, his eyes shining with amusement and glee.

"Nothing. It's just that...well...you remembered that color metaphor." It was this time after a show, and a fan had given Olly a nice light pink baseball cap, which he referred to as carnation. Emre snorted, and it prompted Olly to lecture him on the degrees of color and why it was important to know them, like how it was important to know different word degrees. Emre, half asleep at that point, shrugged and said that he's happy with his many shades of black, gray, and blue. Now, Olly looked up to see the ice in Emre's stare had broken a little bit, letting a little warmth shine through. There was another long pause, but Olly was confident enough to take his place next to him. The space between them felt more like a crack than a steel wall. 

The afternoon London sky was beginning to fall asleep. The air was biting cold, and it breathed nostalgia in Emre's bones, just like it always does when the day bids goodbye. He finishes off the lasagna in silence, taking the chance to gather his thoughts. He swallows the last of it, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Olly is standing next to him, all breath and no movement.

"We can make a new chorus. Figure out what you want, and then come to me afterwards. Meet me halfway here, okay?" He holds out his hand to Olly, who stares at it like it’s some intergalactic worm. They don't really shake hands. It's such a distanced act, so formal and serious, something they never really were to each other. Eventually, Olly takes the hand and shakes it. The strangeness of the situation isn't lost on Emre, who lets out a semi amused scoff. When they let go, Emre turns back to the skyline, making no move to head back down.

"We've been gone a while. Mikey's alone at the studio." Olly's rocking on his heels again. In the sad London dusk, his silvery hair glistens. Emre contemplates taking another cigarette, but decides against it, hearing what Olly is really trying to say behind the statement. _Come back, be here._

"Yeah, alright." He packs up the empty food container and follows a sufficiently appeased Olly back down to the studio.

Hours later, it almost feels like everything is back to normal. The ice around Emre had melted a little bit that it was safe enough to throw some jabs at him without earing another walkout. It was Mikey's turn in the booth. Olly was lying down on the sofa, trying to finish his lyrics, while Emre was tinkering at the sound board. in between recordings, Olly tilts his head to see a cockroach scuttling along the floor. 

"Oh, that's gross." He sits up and starts scrounging around for his discarded sneaker to kill it with. Emre swivels his chair around to look for Olly's source of discomfort. "This is why we shouldn't be eating in here. It's unhygienic."

Olly scoffs at him. "Yeah, whatever. You're being a big help with your nagging." His head is lost behind the couch in the search for his shoe, so his words come out muffled.

"Aha!" He waves the white Adidas around triumphantly, earning an eyeroll from Emre, as he pads over to squash the bug. As he bends over to make it meet The Creator, it rips out its wings and launches into a speedy flight.

"Holy fuck!" This changes everything. A creepy crawly was just an insect, but a flying cockroach was capable of anything. "Emre, get it!"

"You get it! You're already holding a shoe!"

"You're closer to it!"

"Oh, to hell I am!" Emre jumps from his chair to the couch where Olly was standing and trying very hard to avoid the zooming and diving deathtrap. In hindsight, this was probably not the best way to avoid a flying insect. The two are huddled on the couch, trying to be as small and slim as possible in hopes to avoid it. When the roach lands on the mixer, Emre springs into action. He grabs Olly's shoe and smack the bug dead. The sole makes a loud, and potentially damaging, crack on the metal board. The cockroach falls limp on the carpeted floor, remaining motionless. It is dead upon impact. It is Emre's turn to wave the shoe, now with a wet mark on the sole, in triumph. His stupidity earns him a soft, and somewhat patronizing, smile from Olly.

"Hooray for you," Olly gives him a slow clap, to which he bows. "My hero." Emre winks and tosses him back his shoe, which Olly avoids, not wanting to accidentally touch the cockroach's blood.

_Tap tap tap._

Mikey is on the other side of the glass, his bass forgotten on the floor, and his existence possibly forgotten by his bandmates. There's a mixture of concern and amusement on his face that's partially hidden under his thick beard. Emre presses a button to let them hear him.

"Ummm," Mikey quickly volleys his glance between Emre and Olly. "You two okay?" He could barely see the flying cockroach from inside the booth, but he thinks it must be something to that extent, or else his friends might have officially lost it. Emre laughs, breathless and shaking.

"Yes, yes. Crisis averted." He gives a stupid thumbs up, and they all laugh a stupid laugh, and all is right in the world again. Olly plops back down on the couch and stares at Emre's back as he sits back down and the other two resume recording. They will have tons of other fights, some worse than others. Emre will smoke about hundred more cigarettes and Olly will ignore him until the last possible moment. But nothing will ever be so bad as to lose him, and Olly takes a lot of comfort in that. Romantic love, at times, can be overrated. It must be earned and deserved and can be taken away at will. But this, this here. A sweater in the cold. A shoulder in the dark. A warm body beside him to tell him that he will never be alone. A friend. A comrade. Emre. This is freely given and taken, a freeflowing ocean that makes waves and breaks rocks, but really never leaves and always comes back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I know the answers are very basic and temperamental and perhaps not very good, but I didn't want to make it preachy. Plus, it's 2am and after a few drinks. More to come soon! Lemme know what you think.


End file.
